Metaphors+2008

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Lighthouses by Jo Dunlap

My lighthouse, and others like it, stand as guardians along the coastline to show the sailors and their ships where to go to avoid being snagged on reefs or crashing into the rocks that seem to vanish into the darkness as storms approach. Wise sailors heed the message of the lighthouses; others are smashed mercilessly against the rocks. Ship and crew suffer serious hardship. These lighthouses are extraordinarily special. You might see light when it sends its warning, that’s what most people see, and that’s important. But to the boats and I, those beacons of light, pulsating from the giant eye in the tower, give us the most powerful of gifts; a story.

During the first storm I remember being at sea, the boat and I were in terrible trouble. Gently emerging through the mountainous indigo waves, the boat and me, we didn’t just see the light, we heard. We were called in by a story about a magnificent angel and those he protected. The angel followed the holy family until they found a place for rest. There was a shimmering robe and kindness and love. Other stories were silly but the stories from the lighthouses always beckoned me safely back to port. If I was feeling blue, the story would cheer me up and there were stories of a family’s love when I longed to be home.

Joining a crew as a cabin boy led to different stories. I learned about people suffering in far away places, animals in the rainforests I hoped to see, a magical land called Narnia, and I learned to solve many a mystery. While down at the pub I entertained many of the sailors with the tales I had heard and a few I made on my own. Since the lighthouses don’t tell everyone stories, I know I have to listen when the stories come. Others depend on me for their stories and I can’t disappoint.

Years later, signing on as first mate to a fine, luxury vessel proved to me again that there was even more power in the words of the lighthouses. Many a time I used a yarn to calm a mutinous crew during a long journey. I used the oldest tales I could remember. Stories taking us to ancient coliseums to converse with gods and goddesses, diving into oceans to battle massive underwater creatures, and stories of people traveling through time visiting worlds we don’t understand. I’ve even made up a few stories, just to keep my crew from complaints of boredom. Sometimes the captain enjoys a story or two as well about ancient warriors or the hero’s triumph over the evil, driving it from the earth. This seems to keep the big ship sailing along just fine. Still, when we are out at sea and storms approach, it is the lighthouses and their new stories that guide the ship back to shore.

Occasionally the ships have to go to port and repaint and repair. We must correct the damage done by those rough nights in the salty air with the giant waves pounding until we no longer can find direction comparing compass to stars. The thunderous echoes of the storm sometimes make listening difficult, but only if I take note can the lighthouses call me and my vessel home.

My life as a sailor has always been somewhat mysterious. Early on I recognized a rhythm to the rocking of a ship’s hull against the water’s ever resisting surface, moving a person as a baby is lulled by his mother’s sweetest lullaby. The body’s repetition when scrub, scrub, scrubbing the deck, row, row, rowing a dinghy, or sew, sew, sewing the sails could put a babe to sleep. These every day chores had to be learned long before I could sail on my own. I still recite my beloved mother’s nursery rhymes, carried away by the giant white goose, as I prepare for a journey. Other sailors chuckle and think me a bit crazy. Maybe so but I swear, there is something with the sea the boat and me that I just can’t explain.

Before joining my first crew, I loved to play on the beach in front of the old lighthouse up the shore. I would rub my hands over the sun warmed, whitewashed planking, placing my cheek against the side and then squeezed tight until the skin of my face was squashed up clear to my nose and I could taste the dust as it was sucked in when I took deep gulps of sea and salt and sunshine. I wanted to be the lighthouse; somehow, it knew.

I have my own little boat, just for special days and when I serve one of my causes. She is striped in shades of pink like a sunset and all the yellows of a daffodil garden. I know these colors may seem odd for a sailing vessel, but they remind me of sunny days and gentle evenings out on the open sea. Still, my little ship cannot compare to the enormous luxury ship, but it is important just the same.

We accomplish admirable tasks, my little boat and I. My life would not be whole without the boats and the lighthouses. Truth be told, I love to sail out alone in anticipation of a storm if only to experience a new story from the magical lighthouses or the inspirational light to create something of our own.

Quilt of Discovery by Sally Neill Bridge Mahogany, chestnut faces Chocolate, almond souls Calico, batik spirits Pieced together to learn Shades of eager students Teacher shaping, arranging Pinning on new ideas Layering reading, writing Stretching minds Trimming ignorance Shrinking intolerance Snipping disrespect Threading needles of harmony Stitching fabric of learners Basting texture of cultures Quilting designs of voices A synthesis of souls Searching Voices emerge Take shape Triangles of utterance Rectangular writing Spirits express A crazy quilt of discovery



Ashes to Ashes by Shirley Crosby Observing the vast emptiness shrouded in haze, I am utterly dismayed. It has only been a year since I last made the trip up the mountain. This is a place that meant everything throughout the journey of my life. This mountain had loomed large over every major event. Now, as I prepare for another milestone, I survey the history of my existence and the impact of the mountain on it. I recall my sister and I sitting as young children at Great-Grandma’s knee listening as she told us of her adventures with the mountain. She recounted experiences of crossing through a pass in the foothills of the mountain. Great-Grandpa had to place ropes around giant Saguaro cacti to hoist their Studebaker up the steep grade and then down the other side. I cherish these brilliantly woven words as they echo in my memory forever. Great-Grandma’s gift of voice was rivaled only by her artistry at painting masterpieces of the mountain with its spring array of flowers. She illustrated the ever-changing beauty of the mountain; however, the more that mountain changed, the more it seemed to stay the same. I was in fourth grade when Great-Grandma died. She beckoned her final sleep from a church pew in a chapel built in the shadow of the mountain. She took off her eye glasses, folded them, and gently sat them at her side. Then she just lay down, closed her eyes, and woke no more. I cried and cried but didn’t know why. I only knew that I would never again enjoy her enthralling tales. The peace of my first experience with death now comforts me. Life continued on, and as it did, the mountain’s majestic presence inspired me. In the sixth grade I visited the mountain for my first camping trip, one whole week of church camp high in the whispering pines. This was also my first week away from Mom and Dad, my very first icy cold shower (no water heaters up there), and my first experience of feeling truly alone. We had the choice to hike to Mount Bigelo where the ranger station stood, or to stay in camp, which is what I chose to do. After reading for some time, I looked out to see a horrifying sight. A blanket of smoke covered the camp. As I stepped outside my tent, the thick white smoke enveloped me. I was alone, and for the first time in my life terrified that I might be lost. After a few minutes of panic it dawned on me that I could smell nothing unusual. This odd haze obscured my vision yet I smelled nothing but the fresh smell of pine trees. Calm came over me as the mountain revealed her wisdom. The lack of humidity at home on the desert floor had kept this experience from me until then. To fully understand the riddles of life one must heed all the senses. Fog has a way of making us focus on those trees we routinely miss for looking at the forest. There were many similar journeys in the years that followed, each yielding a wealth of experience and knowledge. I received my first kiss on the mountain as well as my first broken heart. It was at the same mountain campsite that I learned about preachers’ sons; boys held to such high expectations that they can’t help but jump headlong into the very depths that the world wants to deny them. I resolved however to deny that particular preacher’s son the depths of my goodness and grew wiser for the encounter. I never told anyone about his advances; I just chalked it up to a lesson learned. Understanding human nature and why we have our differences gives me the ability to empower others. While too little discipline may spoil a child, too much will surely forge rebellion. Like man’s failed attempt to tame the forest, unless we use moderation in all we do, the consequence of our actions may not yield the expected outcome. I met my true love in the desert and married him there as well, but not until we ventured up the mountain did we truly know one another. We made many trips up her winding roads. Each trip proved more beautiful than the last. Each season held its own unique attribute. In the heat of the summer, we found the mountain to be a cool retreat from the smothering desert temperatures. The mountain in winter was a wonderland of white, the likes of which I had never seen; a beautiful picture worthy of any Christmas card. Spring and autumn were colorful kaleidoscopes of changing colors and blooming foliage. When life got the better of us in the heat of the desert floor, cool beauty of the serene mountain made it all more bearable. On one of our brief trips to enjoy the view from Windy Point, we were tracked down and informed that I had become an Aunt for the first time. It seemed as though one chapter were coming to a close and another opening. A sapling of a nephew born to our family and I stood as proud as the tallest pine in the forest. We rushed down the mountain to greet the newest member of our family and it was then I realized that somehow I had become an adult. I would have the awesome responsibility of influencing my very own nephew, teaching him the things I had learned from the mountain, passing on the stories of Great-Grandma’s adventures. We moved away to the plains, and each day I miss the breathtaking view of the mountain strong and true. Each time I return for a visit I travel the winding road to the top and listen to the mountain. So much life has come and gone. We lost a nephew to illness, laid both grandmothers to rest and raised three wonderful boys. Now I am back once more to celebrate the life of my mom and dad and I know that the birth of my grandchildren opens yet another chapter of life. I am torn between chapters not wanting to close, yet eager for the next. The mountain has turned a page, as well, having lost its lush green vegetation to fire. Her peaks and canyons lay vulnerable to the blowing wind. Ash from the devastated forest hangs in the air, obscuring the valley below. Those who have tried to conserve the forest by dowsing the flames of a thousand small fires have inadvertently given way to the rage and fury of a massive inferno fed by an overabundance of tinder which lay on the forest floor in piles of explosive pine needles. In preparing for grandchildren, I think of the mountain and remember the importance of taking one chapter at a time. Torch the tinder of all the small forest fires forgiving even myself for mistakes from the past. Only then can I begin to close each chapter and open the next with a fresh new start. I must burn off the dead wood so that new life can take root, cherish the old growth for its strength and wisdom, but nurture the saplings as they will one day replace that which must eventually pass on. As this chapter nears its end, I will watch and hope for the mountain to recover from the ash and spring forth new life.